“The Fuckable Prometheus”
by Ivan Hernandez
The first sex robots were the equivalent of fucking a velvet-handled power drill. Unholy unions of flesh and steel, like a car crash except you jizz at the end. So, for some people, still like a car crash. I’m looking at you, James Spader.
The Japanese, with their knowledge of holes and orifices passed down thousands of years by elder perverts, had perfected the technology first. They’d defeated the uncanny valley, which was also the term they used for their creations’ vaginas. The companion body pillow industry was the first to suffer. Why would you fuck a pillow shaped like Rei Ayanami from Neon Genesis Evangelion when you could fuck a robot shaped like Rei Ayanami from Neon Genesis Evangelion? YOU WOULDN’T.
Marvin was one of the first state-side otakus to receive his cyberbride. She had arrived in better condition than most women ordered online from a foreign country, certainly more bubble wrap involved. Her demure expression belied a body full of hydraulics and wiring and motors, a beast of strength equaling or exceeding that of any human man. Human Man is a great band name, by the way. A vagina so nimble it could pick up an egg or an egg-shaped male organ. A mouth rated at 3600 psi, more powerful than an alligator and significantly less of an ordeal to facefuck. Black hair framed a happy, heart-shaped face, vaguely resembling Marvin’s ex who was not as much an ex-girlfriend as much as a girl he stalked in his community college pottery class. She had rebuffed his attempts to “Ghost” her and wedge his infantile penis into the cleft of her sitting buttock, claiming he was more Whoopi Goldberg than Patrick Swayze. The robot’s name was Yuriko, which was Japanese for “puts it in the can way too easy.” Their life was a quiet, almost pastoral image of a loving couple who had the kind of degrading, animalistic sex only possible when one of the partners can twist their torso 180 degrees.
After a few months and a 7,000 mile maintenance visit came their first obstacle. On November 20th, Marvin received the traditional Thanksgiving card from his parents. Instead of explaining that he was once again not invited to their house because of their incredible disappointment with him as both a son and a man, it ordered him home and to bring Yuriko, or as she was named in the letter “that pile of springs and polyester into which you deposit your wretched babydick.” Marvin tossed the note in the trash, lit the trash on fire, masturbated into the wastebasket, and cried. Yuriko put a comforting hand upon his shoulder then tipped the basket into her mouth like an Austrian chugging beer from a glass boot after the Anschluss, gargling the murky ash and dragging a hand down her pale bodice as she swallowed. In that moment, Marvin knew no woman of blood and skin could win his heart.
Marvin approached the house with a trepidation born of knowledge, of being birthed from the fetid hellmouth which was his mother’s womb. He had prepared Yuriko as best he could, explaining that the people she was about to meet were responsible for raising him into the person he was today. She apologized for this, which he accepted.
His parents sat opposite each other at the dinner table, making as little eye contact as their marriage allowed. Elaine and Harold were the kind of white Anglo-Saxon Protestants who would make Martin Luther cream his potato sack in joy at his accomplishment. Elaine was the first to speak.
“Does she enjoy her offering?” she asked of Yuriko, gesturing at the plate which held a pile of screws and nails marinating in motor oil.
“Electronic companions do not consume matter for energy, although I appreciate the sentiment behind it, celebrated mother personage.”
“I asked Marvin. I do not engage appliances in forms of conversation. It would be as if I were to address the blender, although I anticipate Marvin would have less luck when fucking the blender unless he was to select puree.”
“I knew it!” Marvin screamed, “This is all about how you don’t approve of me and you don’t approve of Yuriko, by the transitive property of addition you approve of neither of us!”
“Shame!” she bellowed, “Shame shame shame shame! You shame me and you shame the chubby infant Jesus when you lay with that creature! It is a monster, a perfectly proportioned Frankenstein!”
“FRANKENSTEIN WAS THE DOCTOR! THE CREATURE IS ADDRESSED AS FRANKENSTEIN’S MONSTER! No one gives a fuck about Mary Shelley except me!”
Marvin stomped to his room, the grooves in the carpet from where he had done the same so many times before molding to his soles. Yuriko stood and pointed at Elaine.
“From what I have gathered about the human growth process, your failure to support a wonderful, genuinely repellant to human women man is the only shame brought unto your family.”
“I did everything for that boy! When he was bullied in school, I taught him to acquiesce to those bullying him as their strength proved their own superiority! When he was a virgin of but ten, I was the one who threw him into a shallow pit with a scared prostitute while yelling ‘ATTACK! ATTACK!’ It was me who paid for his college on the condition he would have to shave his anus and genitals on a daily basis! What have you ever done but love him?”
“You do not have to have an elevated mental core to see that you are truly the emotionless robot here.”
Yuriko padded after her owner husband.
“Harold, are you going to let a lamp with a gash talk to me like that in my own home, for which you paid?” Harold’s fork pushed a canned beet across his plate.
Later that night, a series of loud thumps awakened Elaine.
“Wild negroes, in my home!” she gasped instinctively. Clutching a croquet mallet she kept nearby in case of home invasion or an impromptu midnight round, she descended a staircase. The thuds grew louder, this time she could hear snippets of conversation. A man asking if it was hygienic, another answering that sterility was no longer a man’s concern. She entered the kitchen to see her husband bending Yuriko over the island at the center, her son in the corner supervising it all.
“You traitor!” she screamed, “You toaster fucking traitor!”
She advanced, swinging the mallet. Yuriko disarmed her easily, all while maintaining Harold’s organ inside its home in her rear orifice like a freshly moved-in hermit crab.
“It okay, mom,” Marvin explained, “Dad was curious, so I let him have Yuriko as he saw fit. It’s really broadened his understanding. You should go a round, I splurged for the lesbianism expansion pack.”
“This is a heresy and a blasphemy and another word that rhymes,” Elaine yelled, “This house is torn asunder!”
“I may have a scenario in which all parties are satisfied.”
The next year, Marvin arrived at his family home. His father greeted him and Yuriko warmly and escorted them to the dining room, where a buxom woman who resembled an Asian Bernadette Peters disassembled a turkey with but her hands.
“Son, Yuri, this is Kimiko,” he said.
Marvin clasped his hands.
“So, when do we get to fucking?”